Gratitude fills me on this day, Dec. 12, as I recall an important moment from my life.
Thirty-two years ago this morning, on Dec. 12, 1984, surgeons at SUNY Upstate Medical Center in Syracuse (now named Upstate University Hospital) pried open my skull and pulled out a large tumor that had swallowed my pituitary gland, stunting my growth and delaying my maturation during my teenage years.
Although it was benign, the position of the tumor, a craniopharyngioma located near the optic nerve, meant it could have caused a loss of vision if left untreated. But the surgeons plucked out most of the tumor in a successful eight-hour operation.
The damage to the pituitary gland left me with two lifelong diseases—panhypopituitarism (a deficiency of all of the hormones the pituitary gland produces) and central diabetes insipidus (a condition caused by a lack of the hormone vasopressin, producing the symptoms of excessive urination and extreme thirst).
Still, despite the need for heavy doses of prescription drugs and constant management and monitoring of my health, more than three decades later I am happy to report my last MRI showed I am tumor free. My vision remains intact, with the exception of reaching the age where I require progressive lenses and reading glasses.
Doctors had to perform two follow-up, through-the-nose surgeries, along with a round of Gamma Knife radiosurgery, in order to achieve the positive results. And I know the slow-growth tumor could make a return appearance a few years from now.
But for today I am free of its tentacles.
Today I am thankful for being alive, knowing things could have turned out differently. One error from a surgeon 32 years ago could have meant diminished mental capacity or motor function, or even worse, blindness. Any number of factors could have changed the outcome.
Instead I am nearly 50 now and married to a wonderful woman. And we have a beautiful young son, a nine-month-old tyrant named Colin Joe.
I believe the prayers my family hurled at heaven on Dec. 12, 1984, had something to do with helping me survive the delicate operation. On this feast day of Our Lady of Guadalupe, I can’t help thinking that the petitions my aunt, Sister Carmella DeCosty, made to the Blessed Mother that day were answered. And in this season of blessings and gratitude, I will take a moment to say my own prayer of thanksgiving.
Hopper-esque sunlight pours through the fifth-floor windows of an exam room in a medical office building in Syracuse. The light clings to the white walls on this Tuesday morning as I await the appearance of my neurosurgeon to give me the results of the MRI of the brain I had done earlier in the morning.
I notice the stenciling of letters on the wall directly across from me. The uplifting slogan reads: “Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass. It’s about learning to Dance in the Rain.” The words hold little meaning to me on this bright sunny day with highs expected in the eighties.
Dr. H. comes in a short time later; I rise from the chair, greet him and shake his hand. He is bald, thin, wears brown-rimmed glasses and is chewing gum. He takes a seat across from me and says, “Everything on your scan—the one you just had—is perfect. No change from a year ago.”
I ask him about residual scar tissue from the Gamma Knife surgery he performed in 2012 to remove remnants of a craniopharyngioma, a benign tumor in the sellar region of the brain, near the pituitary gland. The neoplasm was initially removed at Upstate in 1984, but it grew back and I needed follow-up surgeries in 1988 and in 2011. But it has not returned since the Gamma Knife procedure four years ago.
“It’s just scar tissue,” Dr. H. says. “Everything is clear. So we’ll just plan another MRI in a year. We’ll get you in before the winter comes.”
And so I can proclaim that I am tumor-free for another year. We have kept the craniopharyngioma at bay. And although I push the fear of its return to the outskirts of my mind, I know the tumor could sneak up again at any time. But on this morning I am thankful for the reprieve. It means no follow-up scans, no biopsies, no inpatient admission and no additional surgeries. I am grateful that I don’t need to wait for the storm to pass or learn to dance in the rain—at least for now.
Here’s a follow up to a freelance article I wrote about artist and educator Sister Joselle Orlando of Syracuse. In our original interview, Sister Joselle told me a few stories that could not be included in the short magazine piece and web article published by the Sisters of St. Francis of the Neumann Communities, and so I’ve decided to collect them here.
With her short stature, salt-and-pepper hair and tendency to talk with her hands—hands that have labored for many years—you could easily picture Sister Joselle Orlando as an Italian grandmother standing in a kitchen, stirring a pot of pasta fagioli (pasta beans) on a cold winter night. But these days Orlando, 74, a member of the Sisters of St. Francis of the Neumann Communities in Syracuse, New York, stays active by working on personal art projects, teaching art classes, and serving as a hospital volunteer.
As a young girl growing up in an Italian-American family in East Rutherford, New Jersey, Orlando loved to draw and her father, Salvatore, a machinist who worked in an airplane factory, showed her how to blend colors with crayons. Her mother, however, opposed her daughter’s budding creativity and wanted her to focus on the fundamentals of her education. Orlando says her mother, Mary Carmella, a homemaker and seamstress, once told her, “You go and learn your spelling and you’re not coming out of that room until you know them.”
But as a rambunctious child, Orlando says she rebelled against her mother.
“It took me until about fifth grade before I actually learned how to read or how to do math. So I fought with my mother all through the early stages of my education,” she says. “But I always loved drawing and I knew that I could sing. So the fact that I couldn’t read or spell or do math, once we had music or art, I had more confidence, so that kind of balanced it out.”
When she was in fourth grade, Orlando’s family moved to a neighboring town and the Felician sisters from Lodi, New Jersey, educated her. Through the Felicians, as well as her parish church, Orlando found herself drawn to St. Francis of Assisi, and her affection for the saint strengthened her faith in the Lord and sparked a desire in her to pursue a religious life.
“When I was 18 and ready to graduate, I finally said to my mother, ‘Mom, I’m going to enter the convent.’ And she said, ‘Over my dead body you’re going to enter the convent.’”
Orlando says her mother wanted her to become a secretary. But Orlando followed her instincts. She wrote to the Sisters of St. Francis in Syracuse and they wrote back and welcomed her into the community.
She recalls the pain of leaving home on Sept. 1, 1959, and beginning her new life. “My mother would not come with me that day, she was sobbing terribly. My dad and my brother, my future sister-in-law, and I drove to Syracuse and they dropped me off at the back door. They left and I entered the convent. It was a bit of a dramatic way of entering the community, but I really knew that this was my call from God.”
Sharing Knowledge about Art and Life
Because the Sisters of St. Francis recognized Orlando’s artistic talents, she says the community wanted her to pursue an education in art with the goal of becoming a teacher. Orlando received a bachelor’s degree in fine arts and education from Syracuse University in 1974. She later earned a master’s degree in art education from SU and a master’s in religious studies from St. Charles Seminary in Philadelphia.
Orlando spent more than 40 years in the field of education, teaching at both the elementary and secondary levels, and her profession became a calling, as she derived joy in molding students and helping them to develop their artistic skills.
She says, “I love to teach and to see how either children or adults evolve and discover talent within themselves and can say to themselves, ‘Oh my God, I did this.’”
Sister Jacqueline Spiridilozzi, who is also a member of the Sisters of St. Francis, has known Orlando for more than 40 years and says her vivacious and free-spirited personality is reminiscent of the character Maria from The Sound of Music. Spiridilozzi says Orlando always gave her students the “space, encouragement, and direction” needed to “bring out the best, promote the potential.”
Orlando has mentored many students throughout her career, including Sarah Guardia-Weir. Guardia-Weir met Orlando when Guardia-Weir was a freshman at Seton Catholic Central High School in Binghamton, where Orlando taught art and served as a campus minister from 1995 to 2007.
Guardia-Weir says Orlando “showed me so many tricks that advanced my art skills and creativity.” She credits Orlando for helping her to get accepted into the demanding architecture program at Syracuse University.
But the relationship went beyond just the teaching of technical skills. While studying at SU, Guardia-Weir reconnected with Orlando, who was working and living in Syracuse at the time.
She says Orlando “taught me the power of friendship and the enjoyment of life through art … to have an adventure and trust in God’s path.”
Guardia-Weir graduated in 2014 with a bachelor’s degree in architecture and a minor in ceramics. She works at an architectural firm in New Jersey and remains active in art, making crafts for her family and friends.
And she remembers some inspirational words Orlando shared with her that still resonate today. “I was worried about aging and worried that life might get boring as my young ideas fade,” Guardia-Weir says. “But Sister explained, ‘As an artist, I can assure you, even at my age that the gift of imagination will never die.’”
Challenged by Jerome Witkin
Bright sunlight streams through the windows of the converted chicken coop that now serves as Orlando’s art studio in Fayetteville.
On this morning, a clear subfreezing day in late February of 2015, Orlando sits at a long table, working on a bright watercolor painting of St. Marianne Cope dressed in her habit and standing in a Hawaiian setting.
St. Marianne was a Sister of St. Francis of the Neumann Communities. She helped to found St. Joseph’s Hospital in Syracuse in 1869 and later devoted her life to caring for those afflicted with Hansen’s disease (leprosy) in Hawaii. She was canonized by Pope Benedict XVI on Oct. 21, 2012.
Orlando dips her brush in water, swishes it around, dips her brush in paint, and applies it to a white-yellow flower seen in the foreground. Later, she rises, walks a few feet, and points out a print of what she considers her favorite painting. It’s an image of dark cave area with a face visible in the scene.
She painted the piece in 1990 while she was a master’s student at SU, and she recounts how one of her art professors, renowned figurative painter Jerome Witkin, taught her an important lesson about overcoming creative challenges.
In Witkin’s class students had to create a series of large-scale oil works, but they could only use two primary colors plus black and white.
“I painted St. Marianne leaning over a woman in a wheelchair on a beautiful Hawaiian beach,” Orlando says.
Orlando used red and yellow as her primary colors and had worked on the painting for several hours when Witkin came to critique it. As he inspected the piece, Orlando explained to him how Mother Marianne and the other Franciscan sisters had treated patients with Hansen’s disease in Hawaii.
Orlando recalls Witkin’s comments. “He said, ‘And they’re getting close to death, aren’t they?’ I said, ‘Yes, they were dying.’ He said, ‘Well get rid of the sunset, get rid of the beauty … and show me that they’re suffering with death.’ And he walked away. That was Friday afternoon. They were due Monday. And I took my turpentine, washed the whole thing. I was swearing, I was so angry at Jerome.”
Orlando regained her composure and directed her energy toward the canvas, working over the weekend to paint a darker palette according to Witkin’s instruction, choosing red and blue as her primary colors.
The final scene depicts a leprous woman seated in a wheelchair and the woman appears to be part of a cave. The viewer can also see a leprous child’s face in the canvas, and the only source of light is the small figure of Mother Marianne entering the gloomy cave.
For Orlando, Marianne symbolizes the only source of hope for the desperate victims of Hansen’s disease.
Witkin praised the revised work and called it the best piece Orlando had ever done. But Orlando told him, “If I take this home and show the sisters, they’re gonna think I’m in a state of depression, it’s so dark.” She says Witkin then replied, “You don’t go down to the level of your audience, you bring them up to your level.”
Art as Prayer
One way Orlando combines her artistic and spiritual pursuits is by teaching an “art as prayer” class, in which non-artists learn how to use simple watercolor techniques as a language of prayer; a session is scheduled to be held in her studio in September.
During the retreats, Orlando incorporates the symbol of the mandala as an impetus for meditation. The mandala is a sacred circle that “represents the dialogue between the visible and the invisible, earth and heaven, the conscious and unconscious.” Students engage in quiet reflection, learn to paint mandalas, and share their prayer experiences.
Orlando says the “art as prayer” program helps to enrich the faith lives of participants and gives them confidence in their creative abilities.
“I tell them, ‘It is not the product that you’re going to be displaying in a museum, it is your experience that you have when you’re using simple art tools. It’s what you feel inside.’”
In her community work, Orlando serves as a volunteer in the Surgical Waiting Room at St. Joseph’s Hospital Health Center.
She interacts with the family members of patients who are in surgery, engaging them in a conversation and listening to their concerns.
Spiridilozzi, who serves as a coordinator for the sister volunteers at St. Joe’s, says Orlando possesses the ability to reach out to others, even strangers, and her presence provides support and strength to patients and their families.
“She kinda has a natural gift for being empathetic and sympathetic,” Spiridilozzi says. “She’s got that warm Italiano heart, and you know she’s just a natural with people.”
Orlando says she doesn’t ask the people she meets what faith they are, “because it doesn’t matter,” but she tries to allay their fears through an informal connection and the power of prayer.
“It’s sharing part of my spirituality with them and letting somebody know that God still loves them,” she says.
Orlando also privately reflects on her encounters with the family members. She will go to an upper floor at the hospital, look out at the view of the city of Syracuse, and pray for the people she has come into contact with. Her prayer is a simple one, summed up with the words: “Oh God help them.”
“You Don’t Go Singing in the Shower”
Inside Orlando’s art studio, a propane heater hums briefly before shutting off. Orlando stands over it, pushing some buttons and trying to coax the heater to stay on; she makes a plea to St. Anthony and then says in a singsong voice, “do your thing, do your thing, don’t go out again.” But when her attempts to revive the heater fail, she walks back to her seat, picks up her brush, and resumes working on the watercolor painting of Mother Marianne.
Her determination to create art and contribute to community life remains strong despite her age. And blessed with good health, she says she has no intention of slowing down her ministry as an artist, teacher, and volunteer. “I have longevity in my family. My dad died at 102 and he was still sharp … and my mother was in her nineties, so I have about another 25 years to go, so hang around.”
Orlando also says she has no regrets about the direction she chose when she professed her vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience more than 50 years ago. She believes that what she gave up to God when she entered the convent has come back to her more than a hundredfold.
“And I know that gifts that are given to us to share are not just for us. You don’t go singing in the shower,” she says. “Gifts that are given to us are given for others, and the more you give the more has come back to me.”
Ithaca, New York-area poet and playwright Kathleen Kramer has published a new full-length collection of poems, entitled Planting Wild Grapes(Yesteryear Publishing).
I became acquainted with Kathleen through our mutual connection with the Syracuse writing group Armory Square Playwrights, and I consider her a friend and a writing confidant.
I was honored when she asked me to write a “blurb” for the back of her book, and I read the collection in galley form via PDF. Holding the hard copy now, I am looking forward to taking my time in reading the printed version; I want to sift through each line of text and let the words and their meanings linger in my mind.
Kramer is the author of a poetry chapbook, Inside the Stone (Ithaca Writers’ Association/JK Publications), and a previous full-length collection, Boiled Potato Blues (Vista Periodista). Her poems have appeared in The Comstock Review, Passager, Avocet, a Journal of Nature Poems, The Healing Muse and other publications. And her plays have been presented regionally in central New York, as well as in the Midwest and in Canada.
Here is her biography from the interior of the book:
Growing up in Pennsylvania’s coalmining and farming region, Kathleen Kramer’s early life was influenced by the solidity of the earth and the rhythm of seasons.
At 19, she left for the city and spent five years working in Washington, DC for the Department of Defense. There followed a stint in Maine where subsistence farming took her back to the land. A second marriage brought her to Long Island, where she and her husband Jack reared their three sons in Northport, a small town on Long Island Sound. During that time and over a period of 10 years of balancing classes, family and work, Kathy earned a BA at Empire State College and an MLS at C.W. Post.
Now, following retirement from the Boyce Thompson Institute at Cornell, Kathy lives with her husband in New York’s Finger Lakes area where she writes poetry and plays. Again, the natural world and changing seasons have assumed center stage. It’s these foundational elements and the strength of generational ties which largely inform Kathy’s poems.
And in this interview, Kramer talks about her book and discusses the motivations that propel her writing. I hope you come to appreciate this artist and her work as much as I do.
Can you give a brief description of this collection of poems?
These poems were written over a period of years and each represents a moment in time when something that seemed important was recognized. Most often, however, the actual moment was, on the surface, quite ordinary. It’s the extraordinariness of the ordinary that moves me. I’ve tried to capture that in these poems.
Not all of these poems address this directly, but I view each one as I might a handcrafted bead: each has its own shape and color and when strung together, they create a necklace that, for me, speaks of wonder and meaning, embracing both good times and hard times.
What do you hope readers will take away from your book?
This collection tries to do a few different things. It explores the enigmatic title, Planting Wild Grapes, which was given to me in a vivid dream. It seeks to illustrate what I think is required of us as finite beings—to engage in our lives as deeply and meaningfully as we can and then, when the times comes, to release them with thanksgiving and grace. It is my hope that the reader will come away from reading this book with a sense of the wonder and meaning in his or her own life.
What do you enjoy most about writing poetry?
For me, writing poetry has been a connection not only to my inner self and to the natural world, but also to something beyond myself. At the risk of sounding grandiose or pious, I believe creativity and the divine are interwoven. When I can touch that moment as I write a poem, I feel exceptionally blessed.
I’m sure it varies with each poem, but can you describe your typical process for constructing poems—from the moment you get an idea for a work until the final revision?
First of all, who knows where the idea for a poem comes from? Sometimes it’s a snatch of overheard conversation. Sometimes it’s a word or line from someone else’s poem or a flash of memory. Often it’s an experience of being with another person and knowing the tie between you is precious. It’s being outdoors and sensing the wholeness. Regardless of where it comes from, there’s a little “thrill,” like a tiny, soundless bell that rings and says, “Follow this one.”
Then I start to write. I write by hand and I almost always go out of my house to write; I especially like to write in cemeteries. (Very quiet and no one interrupts!) When I have a rough sketch of the poem, I go home and type it into my computer, where it’s easier to shape it on the page.
I’m fortunate to be a member of a poetry group, The High Noon Poets. We meet twice a month and it’s there that we each have our poems critiqued. We’re free to accept the suggestions made or to reject them. Often, even if I feel resistant at first, by the time I’m home again, I’m seeing the wisdom of those suggestions.
How does writing poetry compare to writing plays? Do you have a preference?
What strikes me most are the similarities. In my opinion, both demand an economy of language. Every word must carry its own weight. Sometimes, a word might be there simply because it is beautiful, and if that isn’t overdone, it adds to the whole and, indeed, carries its own weight.
I like writing both poetry and plays. One of the pleasures of playwriting is the characters one can create. They become real and will often tell me what they will or won’t say or do.
However, I think I have a slight preference for writing poetry. There’s satisfaction in writing a single, well-crafted poem. It can stand on its own. There’s no need to sustain a long narrative, yet if the poet creates a number of poems, giving each a shape and color of its own, together, they can tell the story of a life or a time.
What’s next for you in terms of writing projects?
I’ll continue to write poems and, occasionally, plays—I must, in order to be happy—but for a time now, my main focus will be on doing readings and trying in whatever ways I can to share my pleasure in this new book, Planting Wild Grapes.
Here are two excerpts from Planting Wild Grapes (reprinted with the permission of the author and Yesteryear Publishing).
Planting Wild Grapes
Every day at dawn I go down to the river,
fill my bucket to the brim and wash stones.
Big or small, I take all that come to hand,
dip them in my pail, rub them between my palms
and drop them back into the river. I listen
for the satisfying sound—the watery thunk—
as they settle among their fellows.
At mid-day I wade the waves of goldenrod
to the center of the sunny field behind the barn.
Beneath my feet, my shadow crouches,
small and black. The candle in my hand
stands tall, like me, its wick waiting for
the match, prepared to be proud of a flame
invisible in the noonday light.
Sunset finds me again at river’s edge, a teacup
cradled in my hands. It holds rainwater caught
in the downpour at dinnertime. I lift it up
to the sinking sun, see the rim turn gold,
then tip the cup, spilling rain into the river.
Tomorrow, if I keep to my course,
there will be time to plant wild grapes.
When we noticed lunchtime voices
in the hall, the ding of a call button,
squeak of rubber soles on tile floors,
we knew the sound of her breathing
had ceased. For long moments,
her shoulder, under my hand,
remained warm. Then a stillness,
profound and deep, came upon her—
not of worldly sleep but
of rest unbounded by time.
All her ailments, her frailties,
fell away and the wholeness…
the holiness… which remained
One of my freelance stories, a short profile of Sister Joselle Orlando, a Roman Catholic nun in Syracuse, New York, appears online. Sister Joselle, a member of the Sisters of St. Francis of the Neumann Communities and an accomplished visual artist, expresses her creativity and carries on her faith by serving as an art teacher and hospital volunteer.
I conducted an interview with Sister Joselle in her art studio last year, and I would like to expand the story as a longer blog post in the near future. In the meantime, here are two examples of her artwork.
In September I traveled to New York on two occasions to gather video footage for Syracuse University’s Arents Award video tributes, which our department produces; the Arents Award is the university’s highest alumni honor. My colleague Bob and I stayed at SU’s Lubin House, the university’s home base for New York City operations. We also shot a few interviews there. While staying overnight at the Lubin House, I had a chance to walk into the Palitz Gallery on the premises and view the Robert Kipniss exhibition mounted there. The exhibit continues until Nov. 12, and my review follows below.
The ventilation system hums inside the Palitz Gallery at Syracuse University’s Lubin House in New York City. But standing in front of some of the graphic works of Robert Kipniss currently on view at the gallery, you may imagine other sounds—a screen door swinging shut, a train roaring in the distance, cicadas singing and the wind moving through tree limbs.
Quiet Intersections: The Graphic Work of Robert Kipniss presents more than 30 prints depicting interior still life scenes and rural landscapes composed of plants, windows, houses, trees, hills and fields. Most of the works are black and white, while others have subtle earth tones like mauve, green and brown.
The prints are part of the Syracuse University Art Collection, a gift from James F. White, and cover more than 40 years of Kipniss’ career—from 1967 to 2013. Most are small works, the largest measuring 24 by 18 inches (height to width).
These pieces show a consistency in style and composition, as the artist uses a dark palette, dynamic angles and carefully constructed geometric patterns to draw the viewer’s eye and create a moody atmosphere.
With the human figure pulled from the scenes, we get the sense of seeing the subjective point of view of a person standing in a living room and looking out a window at a dew-covered backyard or hillside in southern Indiana, or sitting at the kitchen table in the early morning hours, sipping that first cup of coffee and observing the sunlight filtering through parted curtains. Hence, the works stimulate introspection and possess greater allure than straight still life or landscape prints. Their power lies in what they are able to represent or conjure in the mind of the viewer.
And Kipniss prevails in his subtlety. This is not art on a grand scale showcased in a massive and overcrowded gallery space; instead, this is art to live with and reflect on, objects to hang on a wall and return to on a daily basis.
Kipniss was born in Brooklyn in 1931. Both of his parents were artists and he developed an interest in both verbal and visual expression. He studied at the Art Students League and earned two degrees from the University of Iowa—a bachelor’s in English literature in 1952 and a master of fine arts in painting and art history in 1954.
He won an art competition in New York in 1951 and was awarded his first one-man show. After serving in the Army, he and his wife returned to New York City. He worked evenings at the U.S. Post Office and spent his days painting and writing poetry. He then made the decision to devote his time entirely to painting, which meant he shelved his writing.
He would, however, jot down observations about his life and work over the next several years, and these memories would form the basis of his 2011 memoir, Robert Kipniss: A Working Artist’s Life (University Press of New England).
Kipniss has exhibited his work in more than 200 solo shows. He is represented in the permanent collections of several prominent museums, including the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Whitney Museum of American Art, the Art Institute of Chicago, the Los Angeles County Museum of Art and the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston.
He was elected to the National Academy of Design and to the Royal Society of Painter-Printmakers in London.
The exhibition will remain on view through Nov. 12; it is open Monday to Friday from 10 a.m. to 6 p.m. and Saturday from 11 a.m. to 4 p.m. It is free and open to the public. The Lubin House is located at 11 East 61st Street between Madison and Fifth avenues. Contact 212-826-0320 or firstname.lastname@example.org for more information.
After it closes in New York, the exhibit will travel north and then open in January at the Syracuse University Art Galleries in Syracuse, New York.
I woke up with a chill this morning in my apartment, and this poem came to me.
Change of Seasons (The Pea Coat Poem)
The first day of October
and temperatures dip
into the low 40s.
A feeling of utter gloom
as I reach into the shadows
of the hall closet and retrieve
my worn, black pea coat.
And so begins another
six months of winter
in Central New York.
I should be used to it by now,
but I can’t reconcile with this weather.
And my pea coat will not return
to the closet until after Easter.
So until spring arrives,
I will continue to complain
with zeal about the cold,
while making sure
to button up my coat
before I step outside
to face the elements.
I am clearing some space in my one-bedroom apartment, and I recently tackled the project of going through a large blue tote filled with about 200 CDs. All of the albums have been loaded into my iTunes library, so there’s no real reason for me to hang on to them.
I separated some that I wanted to keep for sentimental reasons—like The Best of Schubert, Jimmy Eat World’s Clarity and This Desert Life by Counting Crows, which I listened to continuously (on repeat cycle) when trying to decide whether to leave Arizona nine summers ago.
I took more than 150 CDs that I wanted to sell to The Sound Garden in Armory Square. Two male clerks divided my collection into a few large stacks and then started going through them, deciding what to buy and what to pass on.
I was amused as I stood there on the other side of the counter, watching as albums I loved by Bruce Springsteen, Elton John, Otis Redding, Nat King Cole, Roy Orbison, along with other CDs by Guster, The Cure, The Cult and the Rolling Stones, were all returned to me, declined and discarded. One of the clerks said the total they were willing to give me was 93 dollars and I said that was more than fair. I hadn’t expected to make that much.
I took my cash winnings and headed home; I felt like I had just finished hitting a few exactas at the track. The next day I carried a suitcase filled with the remaining CDs to the 3fifteen thrift store in Marshall Square Mall, where the woman working the counter accepted all of them as a donation. She also gave me a coupon for a free cup of coffee next door at Cafe Kubal (not a bad deal from my perspective).
It seems the pruning of my CD collection completes a chapter in my life, as I move into middle age, putting aside the things of my youth and realigning my priorities. Seeing the CDs laid out on the counter at The Sound Garden reminded me of how important my music collection was to me in my early twenties and throughout my thirties. Living alone for most of that time, the CDs were my companions and the songs they played provided another voice, another sound in otherwise lonely apartments.
But as I shoved the CDs I had saved back into my walk-in closet, I thought of a line from a Bruce Springsteen song. It’s from the title track from the album The River:
“Now all them things that seemed so important
Well mister they vanished right into the air …”
And the song continues, so I’ll let “The Boss” close out this blog post:
“Now I just act like I don’t remember
Mary acts like she don’t care.
But I remember us riding in my brother’s car
Her body tan and wet down at the reservoir
At night on them banks I’d lie awake
And pull her close just to feel each breath she’d take
Now those memories come back to haunt me,
they haunt me like a curse
Is a dream a lie if it don’t come true
Or is it something worse
that sends me down to the river …”
I wanted to share some images I’ve edited as part of a photography project called Structures in Decline. Over the past few years, whenever I found time, I would explore my neighborhood and the surrounding area, discovering buildings and structures in various states of disrepair or decay.
I found myself drawn to the buildings because they seemed to haunt the landscape in Syracuse and Central New York, expressing a feeling of loneliness. And although they have deteriorated and been forgotten, most of the buildings once served a purpose in the community and became part of the region’s history.
A major part of this project was capturing the demolition of the former Kennedy Square public housing project near downtown Syracuse. I photographed the site at various stages of the demolition process and was particularly drawn to the winter scenes, punctuated by shimmering piles of construction debris covered with snow.
I also photographed the Interstate 81 viaduct/overpass running through downtown Syracuse. I feel I must also mention that this was my first attempt at shooting with DSLR cameras, after having made the transition from my beloved Pentax K1000 35mm camera (which still resides comfortably in my storage closet and can be pulled out when needed for a dose of photo nostalgia).
Here’s a Flickr album where you can see some of the images from the Structures in Decline project.
I just wanted to point out that a feature story I wrote about two independent bookstores in Syracuse has been published on LivableCNY.com, a website that celebrates the people, places, businesses and leaders that make Central New York a special place to live and work. You can read the story here.
The story includes some photographs of the two stores, and I have added a few extra shots here. Thanks for taking a look.